Like my Father
I am attracted
to men like my father.
Ones who learned
to keep one eye open.
Men who understand
how a body can be counted—
stood still,
waited on,
answered for
without speaking.
They know what it means
to be watched
instead of watching.
To feel a gaze
settle at the base of the neck
like a hand
deciding
whether it will close.
They’ve learned
how silence buys time.
How hunger sharpens a room.
How strength attracts
the wrong kind of attention.
They know how a body
stops being private.
How walls memorize you.
How the dark isn’t safe.
How the light never leaves.
How sleep becomes
a shallow agreement
you don’t trust.
And it changes
how they inhabit space.
How they read a room.
How carefully they touch
what does not belong to them.
I don’t trust men
who have never been afraid
inside their own bodies.
I recognize the ones who have.
They move slower.
They listen differently.
They do not confuse desire
with entitlement.
They know
what it costs
to be chosen.